Deeper and deeper into the Wedge they traveled. Dirk grew increasingly nervous, but strangely, that made Gary feel better. His pride refused to let him show fear to a young boy approaching manhood.
“Maybe they’ve turned tail and run,” he said.
“You sure Darius knows where they are?” Dirk asked. “I don’t see no tracks.”
Gary had looked himself and saw nothing in the light of the torch and Jerico’s shield.
“Too many men ahead of us marching over them,” Jerico said. “Trust him, and the others.”
The river was but a distant shimmer when they heard the first howl of a wolf. It cut through him like a knife, and for the first time it seemed like Gary realized where he was, and what he was doing. He looked to his sword, an old relic passed down for four generations. He hadn’t even sharpened it before coming out, ignorant of the proper way and not thinking to check with Trent. Men from the other three groups were certainly thinking something similar, for he heard them muttering among themselves.
A second wolf howled, this time from the opposite side.
“Careful, Darius,” Jerico whispered. It did little to help Gary’s already crumbling bravery.
They followed the lead groups into a gap between two gentle hills, their slopes hardly taller than a man. Their pace had slowed considerably, and Jerico lessened the distance between them and the others. When the howls came again, they echoed all around them. Gary swallowed, his mouth feeling stuffed with cotton. Beside him, the torch shook in Dirk’s hand.